So do you think Feist and Norah Jones commiserate for hours on dark, rainy fall afternoons? Via their smart phones? Over cheesecake? Sprawled out on quilts? Choose Your Own Adventure paperbacks dog-eared and put aside?

Listening to "Igotagun" is kind of like watching an 11-year-old skateboard prodigy pulling unbelievably dangerous tricks, over and over again, off of cop cars occupied by actual steroid-crazed cops. It's easy to get gone off of the rapper's self-perceived immortality, the bristling horror-core beats, the mad-lib-checkered nihilism of it all. (More cracked-out bangers that casually flip stupid rap names into punch lines, please.) But all hypes abate eventually; when this demented adrenaline rush isn't enough anymore, where will the hordes/herds turn then?

There's no shortage of intricate, feedback-soaked hard techno out there, but this sounds like a samurai swinging and clashing miniature swords while performing an idiosyncratic exercise routine to intricate, feedback-soaked hard techno, which makes things decidedly more interesting.

Wherein Baltimore's promising Nicky Smith lets loose with a snaggletooth, chainsaw riff that can go wherever it pleases, order whatever it wants, start or end a revolution, steamroll a Guitar Center, carpet bomb a number of paradigms simultaneously. It's like a "Sonic Youth condensed song," only way better than whatever that would actually sound like at this point.